An Exercise In Fidelity
by ATaleOfTwoToasters
Summary: Because way out here, the lights of the city can't cloud out the sky. Destiel. AU.
1. Chapter 1

Dean likes the feeling of wood flooring on his bare feet. He likes that the texture is smooth, that it's cool and even, and that it has a particular smell that reminds him of his old house way back on that cracked, crummy road.

He has a new home now, it's true, but there are moments where he thinks about the tiny house he moved into with his dad and with Sam, even when Dean thought it was impossible and stupid. An autumn day saw their move, and the weather was bitter, cold and unforgiving. Staying there, his dad wasn't home a lot, but he and Sam, at least, still had a place to call their own. Dean thinks about that crumpled little house a lot, but he doesn't tell anyone. He keeps it to himself.

His new home isn't really "new," per se, it's a mixture of worn and used. He's lived in it for nearly a year, now. It's an old apartment in an even older town.

When he first bought it, there were questionable stains, and certain vile scents permeated the air in nausea-inducing fits. That was why the asking price was so low.

The thing is, Dean is stubborn. So he bought the place and he was determined to make it habitable. He fixed it up and he cleaned it, and he paid it almost as much love as he pays his 1967 Chevy Impala. Now it isn't anything especially noteworthy, but it has all of Dean's favorite foods, a collection of movies and CDs, a few defunct tapes and even a couple of records, hardy furniture and a haphazard stack of books that Sam has given Dean.

Dean has read them all, but he refuses to mention that to Sam. When asked, he will skillfully change the subject.

Dean's favorite part of the apartment is, of course, the wood flooring, a charming discovery made when the 70's shag carpeting was peeled away.

Today is Sunday. Outside, the sky is greying and lazy gulls are screeching in circles towards the sun.

Dean never has anything to do on Sundays. He's not the praying type, and his circle of friends is embarrassingly small. He doesn't necessarily mind, though. He likes being alone with nothing expected of him except how long he can sleep in, how many pancakes he can eat and how many episodes of _Dr. Sexy MD_ he can binge watch.

There are some days that the apartment seems a little too quiet, and the spaces a little too empty, but he tries not to let it bother him.

Dean is rolling around on his bed for a while, trying to get comfortable and fall back to sleep. His head's buzzing, though, and his brain feels like a live wire for no particular reason. It won't let him fall asleep because it can't sit still and it feels like one gigantic vibration. He sits up with a small groan of frustration. Glancing at the clock, he sees it's almost the afternoon.

He massages his temples just briefly, and then he decides a shower would probably be a good idea, because he smells like the backside of an elephant.

Freshly showered and clad in a pair of jeans, he strolls through his room towards his kitchen, his bare feet going _pit pat_ on the comfortable floor.

Dean eats a bowl of cereal. And then another, for good measure.

A tiny sliver of orange sun snakes its way onto the dinning room table, and Dean's eyes follow the trail out towards the window, seeing that the sun is burning its way through the clouds, that the sky is brightening and spreading in all directions apart, and that all in all, it seems like A Nice Day.

This is how Dean makes the momentous decision to take a walk.

He sets his dishes into the sink, deciding that he'll probably maybe possibly do them later, that they have to 'soak,' and he grabs a shirt from his closet, complete with jacket and boots, and, out of reflex, glances down to see that the necklace Sam gave him for Christmas is still in place. It is.

The weather outside is, despite the progress of the sun, pretty brisk. The air is biting and nipping at Dean's face, and leaves are falling off the trees at an alarming rate, settling on the top of Dean's head every time he walks underneath their great stretching canopies.

Dean doesn't mind this weather.

It's those fantastic couple of months in the middle, transitioning stages between the heat of summer and the frigid of winter. Fall is nearing its closure, but for now the weather is just the right amount of sun plus cold. It makes him smile a little, but then he feels stupid for walking down a sidewalk alone smiling to himself, so he stops.

This town is small, and it's definitely not the grandiose, sloping city two hours out, but it's a good mixture of aging houses with a touch of modern flair, and the people are generally of a good nature, with just enough of them so that not everyone knows everyone else.

Dean was thankful for that when he moved here with Sam, because no one paid them any extra attention for being out-of-towners.

About half an hour away from Dean's place, Sam's studying at a small, local university, staying with his girlfriend, Ruby. Dean would prefer that Sam had never met Ruby and had just stayed with him, but Sam did meet Ruby, and then he told Dean that he needed "his space." Dean's still a little bitter about that.

In this town, there's a good number of parents living in suburbia—the romantic notion of raising their children in this picture perfect scene fresh in their hearts. It means a bunch of kids are running around every corner, and signs that demand drivers to be cautious dot every street.

The other side of the spectrum is that this town is a College Town. That equation: college plus kids, means lots of nice parks for the children, and a bunch of random bars for the adults, something Dean can appreciate.

It's weird to admit to himself, but Dean actually feels pretty comfortable here, something he hasn't felt in a long time. Sam's doing good in school, too, so that makes things even better (even if Dean doesn't like Ruby).

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean sees a bizarre splotch of purple. He turns to glance at it, and is mildly horrified to discover that the splotch of purple is, in fact, a hideously unattractive gate. It's a deep purple, approximately Barny-shade, and appears to be bedazzled so forcefully and ungracefully that it hurts to look at. Above it is a series of lime green, chipping letters that spell out _Newton Grand Park_.

Among the neighborhood parks here, Dean's never heard of this one, nor has he ever seen it. He doubts many people have, actually—likely because they've been scared off by the gate. Regardless, he's naturally curious, and he's curious now, so he crosses the street and walks into the great yawning depths of the gate and the park laying inside it.

Within moments of setting foot inside, Dean has decided that the Parks and Recreation crew behind this _Newton Grand Park_ project were drunk out of their minds, and that the city beyond was probably so embarrassed by the result, they refused to pitch a single cent towards park maintenance.

The trees that would likely be organized to line the road (the road being a series of broken patches of dirt, cement, gravel and grass), are, instead, placed in random, uneven intervals, and they have not been cared for, ever. Their limbs are crashing into one another, long and spindly, twisting in disturbing patterns that Dean can't quite look away from.

There is one very large tree growing in the middle of the 'road.' Dean has to awkwardly shuffle around it, and he almost trips on its outstretched roots.

He finds himself at a clearing, past the manic trees, and sees a long stretch of hilly earth that, originally, was probably meant to be cut and trimmed to sustain picnics and big parties, running feet, flying frisbees and crawling toddlers. Now it is simply an overgrown field.

A few benches dot the landscape. They are a neon shade of pink.

Out towards the limits of the park, Dean can see a fountain, which he doubts is actually up and running.

Then Dean realizes that, for some unfathomable reason, there are people here. He wonders why on God's Green Earth anyone would come here willingly unless they were part of some elaborate drug deal set-up—but then he stops and realizes that he's here willingly, so he tries not to judge these people.

At the tallest area of the field/hill, a woman is sitting and playing what appears to be an elaborate lute. She has long hair, a jittery shih tzu and some dangling jewelry.

Far to her right is a man lying asleep on a blanket. He's only wearing a black speedo, and he's clearly in his 60's. Somehow, he hasn't seemed to register the chill in the air.

A couple is wandering around several paces in front of Dean, but they seem so grossly absorbed in one other that they are unaware of anything around them.

There's a few more weirdos around here, dotting the place and sitting really, really far apart from each other, as if they need their own space for being weird, and they can't share with anyone else.

And okay, Dean is judging them, but he can't quite help it.

Still, he doesn't have anywhere else to go, so he heads towards one of the pink benches and takes a seat, letting out a quiet sigh. He's following the trend of sitting really far away from anyone else, but he figures that's only natural.

A few seconds later, another bright splash of color catches his eye. It's a kite, he sees, floating high and wild in the sky, with its tail stretched out thinly behind it. The weird thing is that it isn't attached to anything, and no one appears to be flying it.

It simply floats on its own, defiant against the blue-grey sky and headed to what appears to be its demise. A tree, still with a heavy canopy of fiery red leaves, is directly in its path, and the kite will inevitably crash, tear and fall to pieces among the unforgiving branches of the tree.

Dean watches with a detached interest, his mind at a blank place. He gazes at the kite and its doomed journey across the expanse of sky, and he feels a little sleepy, like his brain is blurry and slow.

He doesn't really notice the figure that has appeared, seemingly from no where, enter his field of vision, standing a few feet over, watching the kite with the same unfocused fascination.

At some point Dean registers that another human is near him, and his first thought is that this person is breaking the main rule of conduct at this park: that being too close to another individual is very un-chic.

He glances up at the stranger standing a ways to his left.

Dean is met with an angular profile, a messy head of dark hair and what seems to be a long trench coat, which is something Dean didn't think people actually wore (except for fashionable Europeans).

The man appears to be concentrating very thoroughly on the kite, and he looks like he's frowning, like there's something very puzzling about the kite that he needs to figure out. Apparently, Dean realizes, this man isn't totally absorbed by the kite after all, because he feels Dean staring, and turns his head to stare right back.

Dean is then met with a pair of extraordinarily blue baby blues.

Dean doesn't know what to do, and the situation feels suddenly awkward, so he lifts his hand in greeting, and clears his throat, a polite smile on his face and then he looks away, at the ground for a second and then back at the kite and tries not to make a face. His attempts at acting like a normal person feel failed.

For a moment, there is a blessed silence, then: "Do you have the time?"

Dean looks back at the man and he blinks.

After a pause, Dean asks, "What?"

"Do you have the time?" The man asks again in the same tone, and his voice is low, and made entirely of gravel, and Dean wonders if he has throat cancer, and then he wonders if that's an actual thing.

Trying to reel in his mind, Dean pulls back his coat sleeve and checks his watch.

"It's almost two thirty." He answers.

The man continues to stare at Dean, and Dean has thus added him to the mental list of weirdos that seem to inhabit this park. And then the man nods, almost sagely, with an air of grave importance.

"Fascinating." He says, more to himself than anyone else.

Dean can't help but raise an eyebrow, he wonders what could be so interesting about almost two thirty PM on a Sunday.

The man notices Dean's confused expression, and answers the unspoken question on the apparently fascinating subject of almost two thirty PM.

"Evidently, I've been walking for several hours." He says, nonchalantly. "And I hadn't noticed."

Dean's is further curious as he muses, "Aren't you a regular Forrest Gump."

The other man knits his eyebrows together, and he tilts his head ever so slightly, and Dean can't tell if it's because he's been insulted, or he just has no idea what Dean's talking about.

But come on, who _hasn't _seen _Forrest Gump, _Dean thinks to himself.

Dean waves his hand in dismissal and grins a small grin, sitting forward on the bench, and giving the stranger his almost full attention. "Never mind. Where'd, uh, where'd you walk from?"

Dean knows that when he enters a conversation to fill an awkward space, and this is definitely an Awkward Space, one of the best approaches to it is to just ask questions, because a lot of people like to talk about themselves.

"May street." The man replies, and he blinks owlishly at Dean.

Dean is confused, a hundred percent more. His brain ticks.

"Wait, like, up in the _city_, May Street?" He demands.

The stranger nods.

"Holy shit, dude. How the _hell _did you 'not notice,'" here Dean makes dramatic air quotations with his fingers, "that you'd walked like _ten thousand_ miles?"

"I can assure you it wasn't nearly that distance." And the stranger says it quite genuinely, his voice is flat, and Dean can't tell if he's joking or not.

Still Dean's grin gets just a little bigger. "Were you sleep walking or something, man?" He asks.

The man makes a face, his blue eyes crunching up a little at the corners, and his chapped lips turning down into a deeper frown. "Very nearly."

Dean is incredulous. He's apparently met Donny Darko in person, sleepwalking habits included, except there's no creepy rabbit, just a guy in a trench coat who is apparently the most oblivious person on Earth, and Dean is incredulous.

The man looks like has more to say. "I was laid off this morning."

The first thing Dean says is, "why the hell were you working on a Sunday?"

"They called me in to fire me." The man explains.

At this news, Dean is almost angry on the behalf of this strange man who he barely knows, and his voice is a lot rougher than he meant it to be when he says, "What a bunch of assholes."

The man's lips turn quirk in slight amusement and he glances at the patches of dirt and grass beneath his dress shoes. "That is putting it lightly."

"Seriously, though. That sucks. What kind of douchebag place were you working at?" And Dean leans over a little more, and the man glances once more at the kite, and then back at Dean.

"The glamorous world of tax accounting." His sarcasm is biting, and it drips off his words with more than a little malice.

"Ah." Dean says, imagining the cubicles and the long, long hours, the glum faces and the lack of sun. "Fun."

"It's probably why they fired me," the man says, and his tone is lighter, a little good-natured, a little resigned, "I was having too much fun."

Dean lets out a chuckle at the joke, and he can feel the Awkward in the air slither away ever so slightly.

"Sorry to hear they ended the fun early." Dean says.

The man shrugs. "It's not the end of the world. It was very monotonous anyway."

And then he is silent for a while, regarding the kite again with a gaze unblinking.

The man looks kind of tired, now. He looks like it's really starting to dawn on him that he just walked his own, personal marathon of miles. Dean scoots over, way the hell over to the end of the bench, actually, and he asks the man if he'd like a seat. He feels it's common courtesy, even if he's further breaking the unspoken code of _Newton Grand Park._

Looking incredibly thankful, and a bit hesitant, the man takes the offer and sits on the very other edge of the neon pink bench.

There is now a comically large gap between them, but neither is going to close it, because each shares a mutual discomfort at talking to new people.

The man half turns to Dean, and tries his damnedest to make sure he isn't a single inch closer, without letting Dean see, so he isn't insulted. Dean does see, though, and it's because he's doing the exact same thing.

"I… uhm, never got your name." The man says, and his voice is quiet and just the smallest bit shy.

"My name's Dean Winchester," says Dean, and he holds out his hand because that seems like the normal thing to do. He's still going for the normalcy thing here.

"Castiel," says the other man, and he holds out his own hand to shake Dean's.

Dean thinks to himself that the name is weird, maybe foreign, and he also thinks to himself that Castiel's hand is very smooth and warm.

"Castiel." Dean tries the name out on his tongue, and there's this odd sensation when he does. Somehow he's heard it before, but he can't tell where, it's needling the back of his mind. "That sounds kinda familiar."

"It's the name of an Angel. The Angel of Thursday." Castiel supplies.

"Oh." And Dean tries hard to recall why exactly the name of an angel would strike a familiar chord. He comes up blank.

Castiel blinks a few times and he looks a little sheepish, his voice low, and it's clear he's given this explanation many, many times before. "My family is very religious." He begins.

"Sounds like it. Bet you get a lot of crap for your name." Dean says, because honestly, having a weird name just means a lot of awkward backstory, brutal mispronunciations and probably some iffy looks.

"Yes." Castiel says immediately. "And I have several brothers, they too share the names of angels, yet they received the relatively commonplace ones."

Dean is thoughtful, and he's starting to piece together a few more names, familiar words from a blurry memory. "I'm gonna guess something like Michael or Gabriel." He tries.

Castiel nods, grave and resigned once more.

"Although," he says, after a beat, "thankfully my name's not Metatron."

Dean doesn't know that Metatron is the alleged Voice of God or what Castiel could possibly mean, in fact he thinks that Castiel is referring to the Autobots and to the plights of Optimus Prime, which is a weird thing to think of. So, Dean settles with: "yeah," as a reply. They slide into an uncomfortable silence.

The woman playing her instrument is slowly picking up the blanket beneath her, and a man riding a unicycle has passed down on the decrepit road, causing Dean to stare after his retreating, slightly unbalanced form.

After a while, Dean decides he doesn't like the gaping jaws of silence, so he picks the conversation back up.

"So, uh, Cas," he pauses and glances over at Castiel, "is it okay if I call you that?"

Castiel looks a little shocked at being asked permission, but he doesn't reject it, and instead he nods his silent approval.

"Okay, Cas, I'm still not getting the connection between getting fired and somehow shagging ass way out here." Dean voices, still genuinely interested in the story of this weird guy with his weird trench coat.

Castiel glances at the ground, appearing unsure of his own answer.

"I don't know." He says, trying to recall the momentary lapse in his memory. "I was in the office. They told me I'd been fired, and then, I just stopped listening."

He pauses, and Dean waits patiently for him to continue.

"I saw a… bee." He continues, his voice is even and he's looking absently at the ground. "I was on the ground floor, and outside the office window the bee was perched on a flower, and I wanted to observe it closer, so I got up and… left."

He glances at Dean, and what he sees is a look of genuine curiosity.

"Then somehow I kept walking. Unfocused. I'm sure my employers were somewhat confused." Castiel's hands are moving around a bit spastically as he searches for words.

He continues. "I ended up here because I remember my brother works in close proximity to this park." He frowns. "And I glimpsed this gate, and it was just… so hideous…"

He's babbling now, and he self-consciously trails off, settling his hands in his lap.

"So," Dean says after a pause, and he's amused, his lips quirked just slightly, "you get kicked in the can, see a bee, and have this crazy memory lapse, like, _American Werewolf in London_ style, and then you walk a marathon?"

"Uh…" replies Castiel.

The absurdity of it is starting to make Dean laugh. He's trying to control himself because he's laughing at the expense of an unemployed man, but it's hard to stop once he starts, so he lets the noise reverberate around in his chest and the smile settle on his face, the endorphins trailing out of his brain and shooting into his limbs.

Apparently, however, Dean's laughter is infectious, because Castiel smiles back just a little too, and he looks kind of embarrassed and dorky.

Dean eventually gets full control over himself again, and he apologizes several times for laughing. Castiel swats his apologies away good-naturedly.

This time the silence between them is much more companionable. They watch the kite that has long since careened itself into the tree, and they watch as it folds further into the mass of branches and leaves, and it tears and slides into pieces.

At some point Dean realizes he's hungry, which isn't an unusual thing, but he thinks he'd like to head back to his apartment. He might call Sam or something.

He glances at Castiel, who looks like he's about to fall asleep in his seat. His eyes are periodically slipping shut, and then opening wide with a jolt.

Dean and Castiel have since moved closer on the bench, the gap between them is less obvious now, but neither of them has really noticed.

"Hey, Cas. I'm thinkin' about heading back to my place." Dean says. His breath comes out in a brief puff of white and dissipates upwards to the sky. The temperature is dropping again.

Castiel watches the stream of air absently and then he nods at Dean, and the sun, high above them now, heading towards its early descent, is burning bright and highlighting the colors in Castiel's blurry blue gaze.

"What are you gonna do?" Dean asks, fixing Castiel with a level look.

Castiel lets out a breath and a shrug. He slips a little lower in his seat, and he looks kind of drunk. He may as well be, Dean thinks.

He frowns at the groggy figure beside him, and rolls his eyes. He can't just leave him here on this bench. He'll get mugged or something. Mugged on this awful, neon pink nightmare. And that would probably be the most embarrassing mugging ever.

So without a word, Dean stands up and goes to shake Castiel's shoulder a little, which works.

Castiel squares his shoulders and blinks in speedy intervals. "I apologize." He mumbles, trying to wake his brain alert.

"'S fine," says Dean, "look, man, I think I gotta give you a ride home, or something."

"Oh, no need. I think I'll recuperate at my brother's for a while."

Dean nods. "Okay, can he pick you up?"

"No." Castiel looks at him pointedly, as if this was common knowledge.

"… uh—" Dean wouldn't mind further explanation.

"He doesn't own a car," Castiel adds, "he's also quite lazy."

Dean sighs. "How far does he live?"

"Half an hour from here." Castiel is looking at his shoe now and Dean is pretty sure it's because his foot must be hurting like a bitch.

Dean sighs again. "Fuck it, Cas, let me just give you a ride."

"Really, Dean, I can walk—" and Cas is giving him a look that seems a little indignant and a lot like a glare, and it's a look that Dean totally gets because Castel is a grown man, and he barely knows Dean, and if he's anything like Dean, then he hates depending on the kindness of strangers, because it makes him feel timid and vulnerable and small. Dean is none of these things, and he gets the feeling that Castiel isn't, either.

But Dean glares right back at him, stubborn, and it's a face he's great at making, he's well versed in it, and he knows it shuts people up. Sam has seen this face a million times.

Castiel closes his mouth with a bit of reserve.

Dean makes his voice low and very much like the Older Brother Tone he uses on Sam. "Seriously. I don't want to be the asshole that leaves the guy who looks like he's, what, _five pounds_, exhausted, and half-asleep on a sidewalk."

Castiel maintains his look of defiance, but eventually it gives way under the force of Dean's stubbornness. He rolls his eyes and caves. "If you must…" he trails off.

A grin cracks its way onto Dean's face.

Several minuets later finds Dean walking back through the path of dirt and cement and grass and grime, through haphazard trees and stray roots and splotches of shittastic colors and patterns, but this time Castiel is plotting along at his side.

They walk in silence, mostly because Castiel is still fighting to stay awake. The air is cooling rapidly and biting even harder at their faces, which helps Castiel to remain lucid, but it leaves his nose rosy red and his cheeks slightly flushed.

Fortunately, Dean's apartment isn't too far, and they make it to the parking garage below it in little time.

Briefly running up to his apartment, Dean grabs his car keys and meets Castiel back downstairs in the garage. He's swinging the Impala's keys, touching the familiar texture and feeling the weird jitters of excitement that he always gets when presenting his Baby to a new individual.

The two men approach her sleek, black figure, and she's looking as polished as ever, even in the dim lighting of the garage, she shines and glows like no other car in the vicinity.

Dean smiles at her fondly, and he says to Castiel, "this is baby." And then he makes a face, as if to reconsider his words. "And, no, I'm not making a reference to that goddamn Dempsey movie."

Dean has seen _Dirty Dancing_ more times than he'd like to admit, but he's got the feeling that Castiel hasn't seen it once, if the bewildered expression on his face is anything to go by.

Castiel turns his gaze down to the Impala. He is not well versed in the culture of cars, but even he cannot deny that this car is quite handsome, chic in a kind of retro way. Dean is also gazing at her with the fondest of expressions. If Castiel says the wrong thing, he's sure to offend.

He settles with, "Pleasure to meet you, Baby."

Dean seems placated, and unlocks the doors with a satisfied flick of his wrist.

They settle into the leather interior of the car, and inside and out the Impala is smooth and sleek.

"I feel like a taxi driver." Dean mumbles. "I should charge you or something, Ms. Daisy."

Castiel frowns. He doesn't like his new nickname.

He murmurs out Gabriel's address and general location, and he's lucky that Dean knows the area of town pretty well, because Castiel passes out within seconds of the car starting, the warm presence of another body in a small space, and the welcoming scents of leather and spice pulling him under like a sheet.

Dean smirks over at Castiel a few times, and he's reminded of his road trips with Sam, when his kid brother would conch out the same way. Dead to the world and snoring quietly.

Dean plays Metallica very softly, ironic as it is, and he heads down the road in silence.

When Dean arrives at Gabriel's place, it seems to be a totally average house in the middle of suburbia, small and normal, and Dean doesn't really know what he was expecting.

He glances at Castiel, and Castiel's hair is even messier, and his trench coat serving him as a blanket. He looks about twelve when he's asleep, Dean decides. Dean also decides that he doesn't know Castiel very well, so he isn't up to carrying him bridal style towards the door.

He settles for a rough shake on the shoulder, instead, which jolts Castiel awake once more.

Castiel looks around silently and he's clearly confused.

"We're here, princess."

Castiel shoots Dean a glare, but then he tries to retract the expression and he settles for a look of polite gratitude instead. "Thank you, Dean." He says.

"No problem." Dean shrugs.

Castiel unbuckles himself and he opens the door, letting in a draft of cold air. He turns, just slightly to look at Dean again, and the two are silent for a drawn pause, and neither knows what they're supposed to say, or if anything is supposed to be said at all.

"It was, uh, enjoyable meeting you." Castiel offers, his voice is rough as usual.

"Yeah, nice meeting you, too." And Dean is surprised because he doesn't really mean it as a bland formality. "Good luck with the whole employment thing."

Castiel smiles just a little, and Dean catches sight of a bright flash of teeth before the door closes and Cas ambles up the driveway towards the steps of the house.

Dean stays parked outside. He just wants to make sure that this brother of Castiel's is actually home, and that Castiel has a place to crash because, really, he's going to _crash._

The door opens, and a bright flood of light illuminates the driveway, along with Castiel, and for a little too long to be comfortable the door stays open, and Castiel stays on the other side of it, but then there's a hesitant shuffle of feet and Dean can see Castiel's posture relax, and eventually he disappears into the house, the door shuts behind him.

Dean turns the key and the Impala roars to life. He pulls out of the parking spot and he races down the road, at his usual speed now that he has no one to worry about.

Castiel watches the Impala speed away from the window of Gabe's living room. Gabe's making something in the kitchen, and he's talking to Castiel loudly, like usual, but Cas isn't really listening.

As the Impala turns a corner and out of sight, the sun is setting fast behind her, earlier now that autumn is nearly gone. The sky is lit up in brilliant streaks of golden and red and entering a sea of inky greys and dulled stars.


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning, when Castiel opens his eyes, Gabriel's face is right above his own, and internally Castiel suffers a minor heart attack, but he tries to play it off like it's nothing.

His pulse racing at the rude awakening, he says, as calmly as he can muster, "good morning."

Gabriel is smirking, but it quickly turns to a look of nausea, and he grounds out dramatically, "Oh my _God, _Cas, ever heard of a _tooth brush. Jesus." _He moves back from the couch and stands up and shakes his head in a mixture of mock and genuine disgust.

Castiel doesn't move, and the blankets around him are warm and comfortable and he doesn't want to move ever again. "Well, I was sleeping, so that made it difficult to brush my teeth. I apologize." He says.

His mouth does feel a little, gross, though. He really kind of wants to brush it now.

"Yeah I _know _you've been sleeping, bro. You've been asleep for nearly three days." Gabriel says, and he stoops to collect a tiny crumb off the pristinely white carpet beneath his sock-clad feet.

Gabriel is many things, he favors adjectives like _handsome, suave, mocho _and _obnoxious, _but he is also a notorious neat freak, and has to keep his surroundings infinitely clean. No one really understands why, especially him. Castiel is also frequently uncertain when Gabriel is lying or joking or telling the truth or just slightly fibbing something, but it's usually safe to bet that he's lying, so that's what Castiel does. He's pretty certain he hasn't been sleeping for three days.

"Hmm," he muses, not falling for it, "that must be why I'm so hungry."

Castiel makes a concerted effort not to be like Gabriel in every way he can, but he picked up the sarcastic trait pretty quickly from his older brother, and it stayed.

Gabriel smirks at him again, and he wiggles his eyebrows in an oddly suggestive manner. "Well, lucky for you I'm the best big brother ever, so I made us a huge stack of pancakes." He looks thoughtful for a moment. "Actually, I ate most of them already, but I left you a few."

He scampers off to the kitchen chuckling and Castiel continues to lie, in a near comatose state, on the couch. Castiel can feel that his legs are heavy and sore from his unintentional marathon yesterday, and he can feel that his feet are cramping up. With a large intake of breath, the air filling his lungs with an invigorating burst, he sits up on the couch.

He stares at his feet for a while, and he contemplates toenails for just a bit. He wonders when he last cut his toenails, why toenails even exist, why do they _grow_, and above all, he wonders if a pedicure feels nice, and why women seem to be so preoccupied with getting them.

This train of thought ceases with a glance at his trench coat, draped loosely over a nearby chair. He wonders if it still smells like the inside of Dean's car, of 'baby,' and as he stands up and heads slowly to the kitchen, he thinks briefly of Dean's green eyes and then he tries to stop this train of thought, too, and he takes a seat at the bar in the kitchen, distracting himself by gazing around the room.

The countertops are granite, and spotless, and a large plate of pancakes is waiting pleasantly beneath Castiel's face.

The kitchen, as usual, is immaculately clean, and organized to every last inch. Castiel hasn't been over to this house in a long time, because it didn't always belong to Gabriel alone, but Castiel really does love it, and he knows how much he's missed it.

The walls are soft, peachy shades, and each room has its own individual flair, but none of it overdrawn or busy. Everything is simple, and tended to with great care and intention. Natural light finds a way to flood the house with a cheery brightness.

It is clear, too, that the house was designed and lived in by a woman. She doesn't live here any longer, though, and Castiel tries not to dwell on that for too long because it makes him dark and lost, and he looses his appetite and feels just a bit nauseated when those moods hit him.

So Castiel digs into his pancakes and can barely suppress a moan of pleasure at how wonderfully plump and rich they are. Gabriel has incredible talent in the kitchen, and there is no denying that.

By the time Castiel is nearly done eating, Gabriel reappears in the kitchen freshly showered. He is wearing a silk purple shirt, dark pants and sporting a glass of red wine, and Castiel is just slightly disturbed at this choice of attire but he doesn't choose to comment.

"They're great, right?" Gabriel asks, and he smiles over at the last of the pancakes perched on Castiel's plate.

Castiel nods, incapable of coherent speech with his mouth full.

Gabriel laughs and waves his hands around theatrically, "of course."

He sets his glass down on the kitchen tabletop and he leans forward, across the way from Castiel. Castiel continues to chew and he looks at Gabriel thoughtfully, waiting for him to speak, because he knows that he's going to be the first one to speak. He always is.

Gabriel, on cue, says, "So, Cas, why exactly did you swing by here again?" He purses his lips. "You mumbled something at me and then fainted all over the place, so I have _no _idea what you were spouting."

Castiel swallows and wishes desperately that he had some milk. Gabriel, to his credit, can figure this much out on his own, so he sets to pouring a glass of it.

With most of the pancakes consumed/inhaled, and half a glass of milk downed in seconds, Castiel wipes his mouth ungracefully on the shirt Gabriel lent him. It's a t-shirt with a nearly naked woman slapped across the chest, but Castiel hasn't seemed to realize it yet. Gabriel thinks it looks funny on Castiel, so he smiles secretly to himself.

"I was fired." Castiel says, finally. "Laid off." He adds, as an afterthought, like it matters.

"From your soul-crushingly boring job where they treated you like livestock?" Gabriel asks slowly.

Castiel gives him a long look. And then he says, "yes."

Gabriel shrugs and he picks absently at his fingernails. "Then I see no problem."

"I think," Castiel drawls, "the part where I lack employment is the problem."

Gabriel glances at him then, and his eyes are unusually hard. "Then you go out and find a new fuckin' job, Cas. One you actually _like _this time_._"

Castiel gives the remains of his pancakes a tired look, and for a while he doesn't say anything. Then he mumbles, "I don't even know what I like."

Gabriel lets out a frustrated groan and he downs the rest of his wine. Wiping his mouth with a beige napkin, he sputters, "my God, Cas! We've talked about this like seventy six billion times! You _do _have things you like. Plus, you're not even _thirty_ yet, so you still have _plenty _of time to _experiment." _

His voice is echoing off the walls, and the anger in it seems almost taxing to the warm confines of the house—like it'll melt something precious and soft engraved within the wood paneling. Castiel is gazing at anywhere but Gabriel.

Gabriel, for his part, is glaring daggers at Castiel. "It's not like you're a hundred and you haven't amounted to anything! You have _time_ to find a career that caters to your pretentious, artsy nerdisms, god_dammit_."

"I just…" Castiel tires to figure out his own head again, "You know I needed something stable…" He can't get the words out and he isn't totally sure what he's looking for, either.

Gabriel loosens up a little, and he stops glaring. For a pause he looks at his empty glass and tries to piece his own words together.

"Look," he says, "I know that. I do. I know you wanted to help Anna, and you worked hard for her, we both did, and she knew it."

He's trying to get Castiel to look at him, but it's proving difficult.

"But, Cas, she's gone now, okay?" His voice is gentler. "And it's_ fine_ for you to start something new, and getting fired from a piece of shit job, _that's_ where you start over."

He takes a breath in, and it's a little sharper than he meant. "I know it's pretty hard to believe, but you can find a career that makes you happy _and_ pays the bills."

Castiel looks up at him.

"Trust me, bro, 'cause I've found it already. My shop makes me happy, and I can pay my bills just _fine._" Gabriel says. "Do whatever the _hell_ you want."

Castiel smiles just a little, and he can feel it warm his cheeks and flood down his spine. The tension in the air has drained just slightly, and he can feel it mix in and vanish. He looks back at his plate, and he's still smiling a little. "I forget about your inspiring sermons sometimes, Gabriel." He says.

"Shush, smartass." Gabriel huffs.

Castiel shrugs. "I enjoy them."

Gabriel chuckles to himself. "Oh, Cassie, you sure know how to make a girl feel welcome."

Continuing to smile, Castiel finishes the last of his milk and pancakes in silence.

For a little bit, Gabriel clears up everything while Castiel dwells on their conversation. Gabriel cleans the dishes and the tabletop and even the sink, and he refuses to let Castiel help because he claims Castiel will just do a "piss poor job at it."

In the living room, Castiel is reading a magazine about a variety of celebrities, and he's deciding very quickly that he doesn't like reading this magazine at all, but isn't sure why he can't seem to put it down.

Just as he reaches an article about the newest insanities that Tom Cruise has to offer the world, Gabriel joins him on the couch, and it dips under his weight just slightly. Gabriel has a new glass of wine and a candy bar to match because he is, after all, that classy.

"How'd you get here anyway?" Gabriel asks.

"Walked." Castiel says, and he's morbidly fascinated at this Tom Cruise character, who he can sort of remember having something to do with An Impossible Mission and possibly something about Jack Nicholson and not being able to handle The Truth. He doesn't know the difference between these blurry factoids, really.

"From May Street." Gabriel says more than asks, and he is clearly disbelieving.

"Yes." Castiel says.

"What are you? Some kind of tramp from the 1800's?" Gabriel demands, and he takes a vicious bite from his candy bar. Another thing about Gabriel is that he has the most enormous sweet tooth the world has ever known, and it's a wonder that he doesn't eat all the sweets in his shop before a single customer has a chance to try one.

"Only in my spare time." Castiel replies, calmly.

Gabriel frowns in concentration. "I swear I saw some, like, big black car waiting near the driveway. Like something you'd see in a John Hughes film or something. That have anything to do with you?"

Castiel slides his eyes away from the article and an image of Dean jumps to his mind without a second thought.

"I did receive a ride."

Gabriel turns and smirks at him, not batting an eye. "I always knew you'd whore yourself out at some point, Cas."

Castiel rolls his eyes. "There was no prostitution involved. I met… a man in a park, and he offered me a ride." Castiel realizes as it slips form his mouth that this doesn't sound in any way better, and in fact sounds a lot more illicit. He tries not to feel embarrassed, but he knows a small blush is creeping up his neck.

Gabriel's smirk morphs into a devilish grin. "Oh, so now you're meeting strange men in parks? I know you haven't gotten laid in about a hundred years, bro, but this reaches a whole new level." His voice is high and taunting, and Castiel feels a bit like punching his nose.

"I can assure you, there was nothing seedy about it." Castiel looks back at his article. He's read the same sentence three times.

Gabriel laughs to himself. "Hah… 'seedy,' he says."

Castiel is graced with a few more moments of blessed silence before Gabriel plunges back into the conversation.

"So what'd this prince charming, allegedly 'not seedy' park-goer look like?"

Castiel shrugs. Mostly, he doesn't know how to describe Dean.

"Oh, come _on._ Don't leave me hanging!" Gabriel whines and practically jumps on the couch. Castiel turns the page. There sits a new article about a reality show that has something to do with a shore in New Jersey.

He bites. "Anglo-Saxon. Green eyes. Tall. Short hair."

There. He has described Dean, he feels. He has left out the part about the infectious laughter, the big smile and the whole male model look, but he feels that Gabriel doesn't need to know this.

"Sounds dreamy," Gabriel comments, and he flutters his eyelashes and sighs with contentment. He knows that Castiel isn't going to say anything else, though, so he drops the subject with a smirk. Then he zones out, possibly thinking deep thoughts, likely thinking about porn. He stares off into space for a couple of minutes before he leans over and gives Castiel a rough pat on the knee.

"Well, Sunshine, I'm afraid this is where we part. Unlike you, _I've_ got a date to get to."

He stands up and stretches, and he pops in a breath mint. Castiel nods up at him, and wishes him a good time.

"You can go job searching on my laptop if you want. Just don't click on the folder called 'porn,'" Gabriel says, winking, "because you know what you'll find there."

"Thank you for the warning." Castiel says mildly.

Whistling, Gabriel grabs his house keys and heads out the door, and Castiel wonders absently if Gabriel always drinks two glasses of wine before going on a date.

A day later Castiel has read three more of those celebrity trash mags. Gabriel's supply seems to be unlimited, and Castiel has gained a taste of humanity that he's never really wanted to know. He's been at Gabriel's laptop maybe once. He'd taken a seat and he'd stared at the screen for a long time. At some point he'd been on Google and looked up local jobs. But really, he had no idea what he was searching for.

Gabriel's words kept echoing in his brain, things like _happy _and _fun_, but they didn't totally compute, and the local jobs said things like cashier, McDonalds, Taco Bell and other employments that seem incredibly, irrevocably Not Fun or Happy.

He'd somehow stumbled across a link to a video of a cat, later. And then he'd spent the next hour apathetically watching videos of cats.

Now he is back on the couch, celebrity gossip mag in hand, and a new sense of frustration and a tiny bit of self-loathing fresh in his gut.

By the next day, Castiel is silently eating cereal in the kitchen when Gabriel stumbles in, bleary eyed, mumbling curses and tongues, and desperately seeking coffee.

He ignores Castiel until his coffee is successfully poured, the air permeated with the rich scent, and he's taken at least a sip. His hair sticks up in several directions, and he could probably use a shave.

"Are you ever going home?" Gabriel slurs out over the steaming mug.

"Eventually." Castiel doesn't know when, but right now he'd really rather not. It could be the crushing sense of Absolutely Nothing that he feels in his sparse apartment over the crowded traffic jams and honks of the city, and it could even be that he hasn't seen Gabriel in a long time, and he actually kind of missed him.

Either way, his apartment can wait.

"Jezus, Cas." Gabriel mumbles and ambles away up the steps to the bathroom.

When Gabriel reappears there's an overwhelming mixture of cologne and aftershave circulating the air around him, and he's got a glint in his eye that Castiel is disturbingly desensitized to seeing.

"I know what we're gonna do today." He says, and he draws out the words in a way that makes Castiel's skin crawl. "I just got a call from a sick employee. You're gonna cover her shift today, and I'm not gonna pay you!"

Gabriel is frequently delighted by the idea of saving money, and today is no exception.

Castiel blinks at him. "Okay." He says after a pause. He has nothing else to do, and Gabriel is letting him mooch around the house anyway. He figures it's the least he can do.

"Okay?" Gabriel asks, surprised, and he raises his eyebrows nearly into his hairline.

Castiel shrugs. "It'll be more engaging than anything else I've done."

Gabriel is nodding at him as he says, "yeah, bro, I saw my history and you watched, like, a billion cat videos." He smirks a little. "That a fetish or something?"

Castiel ignores him and finishes his cereal in silence.

As he places his dish in the sink and heads towards the stairs, he hears Gabriel shout out behind him, "and go to your own room already! I'm not lending you any more of my shirts!"

Castiel feels a small surge of anxiety curl in his gut at the thought. It snakes its way through his abdomen and leaves him feeling ill.

Almost as if time has slowed its passage around his very being, he heads to the door on the left at a snail's crawl, the door right next to Anna's old room, and his limbs feel weighted and too heavy and thick, like he's back to walking from May street to _Newton Grand Park_ all over again. The door is closed, as he left it, and when he turns the knob and inspects the contents inside, everything is as he left it too, like time absolutely froze within the confines of the walls.

Perhaps the only difference is the thin sheen of dust scaling over the wardrobe, bedside table and desk.

The room itself is mostly uncluttered, and like most of the rooms in the house, is bright with sunlight and colored softly and gaily. It does a little to calm Castiel's anxiety, but with a glance at the picture of he and Anna on the bedside table, he can remember with perfect clarity why he packed up and left this house as fast as he did. A year ago, he couldn't spend a single second with anything that smelled like Anna, or with an item that she loved, or with a creation she made. This house is all of those things, and no matter how much he loves it, Castiel feels that being here is treading a thin line.

So he tries to ignore the picture frame beside his bed, and he rummages through his closet to see if there are any clothes he's left here that are Generally Presentable. He finds a faded t-shirt and faded jeans, and he decides that, yeah, he's just going for that faded look.

Before leaving the room he grabs a book, because he's worked enough times at Gabriel's shop to know that there are periodic breaks in customer flow, and it gets really, really boring behind the counter.

As an afterthought he brushes his teeth, puts on some deodorant and washes his face, and sure his hair is a little out of control and the stubble on his cheeks might pop into a beard any second now, but he doesn't really care.

He and Gabriel scurry out the door five minutes later to catch the local bus.

For a lot of the ride, Gabriel complains. He, unlike Castiel, doesn't like public transportation. He believes that the services provided are frequently unreliable, and that they smell bad.

While Castiel would agree that there is a faint odor permeating the air, he finds public transportation to be oddly enjoyable. He participates in the mildly creepy act of People Watching, and on the bus and the tram systems in any city or any neighborhood, there are always going to be interesting people to People Watch. He likes seeing the regulars, with their mismatched attire, grouchy expressions and very particular habits. He is not the type to strike up conversation with any of them, but he can appreciate them from afar, and it leaves him content.

His answer to Gabriel's woes, on the other hand, is simple, and it's one he has suggested many times: _get a car._

Gabriel shoos him off and claims that a car is too expensive. Castiel knows that Gabriel probably does believe cars to be too expensive, but he is also terrified of them, and will refuse to admit it. As always, Castiel lets it be.

The brothers get off the bus just as a woman clad in leopard print boards, and tries to hide her small, yapping dog in her purse, which doesn't work out the way she'd hoped.

A two-minute walk and they have made it to _Gabe's._ The shop is small, very hole-in-the-wall-esque, but it gets good business and it has that special kind of "local street cred," as Gabriel likes to say. No one knows exactly what he means by that.

Inside, there are a surprising number of tables crammed together towards the right, and to the left is the counter, large and spacious for ample movement and/or rushing as Gabriel yells orders and many obscenities.

The colors, originally suggested by Anna, are autumn themed, with hues of red, orange and yellow, and the whole place has a near constant scent of cinnamon.

Castiel glances at the clock on the wall and sees that it's almost eleven, and the shop will be opening in around forty-five minutes. The shops' main foods tend to revolve around lunch or early dinner, with a dash of pastries, and a constant supply of coffee for all the regulars and local business men and women. When Gabriel is feeling especially saintly, he does catering. This happens rarely, however, because Gabriel doesn't feel saintly often.

Castiel is doing some minor cleaning, some minor table adjustments and some minor loafing around as the other employees wade into the shop. They nod politely at him, not really remembering who he is, and make their way to the back to get started on preparations for the day.

Castiel is not allowed in the kitchens because he isn't a very proficient cook, and thus, by Gabriel's standards, entirely unsuitable to even exist in the designated chef space. Instead, he places a few pastries in the counter windows, and he adjusts a few signs. Feeling his role is pretty much filled, he takes a seat behind the counter and waits patiently.

The first two hours are busy, as Castiel rightly predicted, and he spends a lot of time trying to balance the orders he's written with the cash he's being handed (for some reason Gabriel refuses credit cards). The cash register is obscenely hard to work. It's this old, silvery vintage piece of crap—so that makes every order just slightly awkward and drawn out.

At some point another employee joins him behind the counter, Castiel thinks his name might be Ash or something, and orders begin to run a lot smoother. It helps that Ash knows all the regulars and what they like to get. Castiel is grateful, and they share some very small small talk just a few times in between. One conversation is about Ash's hair, and how he has a very particular method of styling it for different days of the week.

By the time two PM swings around, there is a lull, as Castiel predicted once again.

Ash has gone outside for a smoke, and Castiel is munching on a pastry that he has shamelessly stolen, reading his book. He chose _Franny and Zooey_ off his shelf.

He is somewhat undecided towards J.D. Salinger, but he does favor this novel—he likes how the writing runs out in a trail of dialogue and thought, and that the characters have so much to say and such freedom to do as they please and go where they want. He thinks to himself that if the Glass family were real, he would very much like to meet what was left of them.

Just as Zooey is launching into another of his frequent diatribes, the bell door jingles and Castiel must tear his eyes away in order to take an order.

He immediately regrets not shaving.

Dean is walking towards the counter, slightly hesitantly, and looking a little confused.

"Uh, hey, Cas." Dean says, and it sounds a bit like a question, as if Castiel's name has either changed, or he's not actually there.

"Hello, Dean." And Castiel can feel every inch of his unruly hair and untidy appearance and he feels, irrationally, like he should hide somewhere.

"Looks like you hopped on that employment thing real fast." Dean says, and he looks a little amused, shifting his weight from one foot to another.

"Oh," Castiel says, "I'm not employed here."

Dean appears even more lost, and Castiel thinks the expression looks comically out of place on him.

"I'm doing this as a favor to my brother." Castiel adds in.

Dean nods, and then he glances outside at Ash, who seems to be talking on a very large, very out of date cellular phone. Dean gestures at him with a thumb, and he looks wide-eyed and disbelieving. "Not that Lynyrd Skynyrd fanboy?"

Castiel shakes his head no with passion.

"No," Castiel says, "my brother Gabriel. He owns this shop."

Dean looks thoughtful, and he's scrunching his nose up just a little in a way that draws Castiel's eyes to the freckles scattered there.

"I guess that explains the shops' name. Must have taken a really long time to come up with." Dean says.

It takes Castiel an embarrassingly long time to realize that Dean was making a joke. The shops' name is _Gabe's_, and it took Gabriel a grand total of five seconds to name it.

"It took years." Castiel says after a pause, and he says it in a very grave, very serious tone that would be hard for the unpracticed ear to decipher as sarcasm.

This is why Dean asks, in all seriousness, "really?"

Castiel smiles very politely and he says, simply, "no."

Dean can't help an embarrassed chuckle, and his green eyes look especially lively. "Damn, Cas, you're good at that. Had me going."

Castiel's smile grows just a bit bigger, but he tries to act unaffected and neutral. "In any case," he says, "what would you like to order?"

"Oh yeah, that." Dean glances just quickly at the clock on the wall. "Uh, okay, can I have the bacon burger and," he trails off and he's staring at the pastries in the glass with a frown. "I feel like I want some pie or something."

Castiel is relatively new to the world of pies, so he has no suggestions to offer, and instead gazes at Dean's increasingly ravenous expression.

"The Cherry Pie here is freakin' amazing…" Dean is carrying on a conversation with himself, now, but he doesn't seem to realize it. "but…man, there's apple, too… _pumpkin_…"

He looks directly at Castiel, then, and his eyes flash and he says, with a kind of seriousness reserved for only the direst of questions: "what's your favorite kind of pie, Cas?"

Castiel is hesitant about answering, strangely afraid of being judged on his choice of favored pie flavors, but he truthfully answers Strawberry Rhubarb. Gabriel made one for his birthday several years ago, and he ashamedly would admit to eating the entire thing in one sitting.

Dean's whole face lights up all at once and Castiel feels like he's going to go blind.

"Strawberry Rhubarb!" Dean shouts to the air. "_Fuck _that's a good idea. I'll get a whole pie to go."

Castiel blinks once, maybe twice, a little shocked by the sudden decision, but he stands up and heads over to the pies at the left of the counter.

He frowns. "What else did you order again?" He asks.

"Bacon Burger."

"Ah, yes." Castiel opens the door to the kitchen briefly, steam slams into his face and he calls out towards the cooks, "bacon burger," and one of them looks at him and nods and they go back to their pots and their pans, and Castiel is always a little uncertain if they've heard him. They haven't failed him once, though, during the day, so he feels he should have a little faith in them.

He shrugs, lets the door slam shut and he goes back to wrapping the Rhubarb in a colorful pink box with _Gabe's_ scrawled quite illegibly across the front.

Castiel can feel that Dean is watching him, probably because he doesn't have much else to do, and Castiel wonders if he can think of any small-talk-y, Conversation Starters to work up to while Dean waits for the burger to be prepared. For now, he avoids eye contact as much as humanly possible and pretends that wrapping this pie takes the utmost concentration.

Gabriel takes this moment to slam through the front door, shouting obscenities into his cell phone and trying and failing to tie his apron with one hand. He ignores Dean and he storms his way behind the counter, he gives a glance towards Castiel that says 'help me tie this sunnabitch,' and Castiel obliges, turning him around and grabbing the loose strings hanging at his sides.

Gabriel rolls his eyes and he tells the individual on the other side of the line to go and "kindly fuck themself with an axe," and he slams the old phone with a shut that seems to rebound off the walls. Castiel, meanwhile, fumbles with the strings, cringes at the idea of being fucked with an axe, and eventually manages to tie the strings into an unattractive, but suitably modest knot.

Unfortunately for him, this has given Gabriel enough time to glance at Dean, who he is facing, and who is standing a little uncomfortably off to the side of the counter, also contemplating the cringe-worthy imagery of being fucked with an axe, and not sure what to do now that Castiel is preoccupied.

Gabriel turns and he gives Castiel a look, and his eyes are bright and his mouth is pulled up at the side in a smirk and a laugh and a grin all at once, every inch of his face is scrawled over with the invisible words: _Tall, Anglo-Saxon, Short Hair, Green Eyes. _Because he remembers these things and Castiel hates it.

Castiel wishes he had given an even more vague description now. Something like: _two arms, two legs. _Or even better: _a_ _human._

Gabriel's mouth grows into an even crueler smirk at the defeated expression painted across Castiel's face, he mouths 'park guy!' and then he looks back at Dean with that same smirk, and Dean gives him a look like Gabriel's sprouted an extra set of ears.

Gabriel walks away back to the kitchen, and he's chuckling to himself like he's discovered the greatest truth or the funniest joke the world has ever known, and Castiel can still hear him through the closed door.

He glances at Dean and he's feeling a sense of dread.

Dean looks back at him. "Okay…" he begins in a low voice.

"That," Castiel glances at the wrapped pie box, and he sighs just a little, "was my brother."

Dean walks towards the counter again, his voice is a lot louder now. "_That _was Gabriel?"

"A small percentage of him, yes." And Castiel's voice is once more grave and resigned.

Dean lets out a whistle and shakes his head. "Not what I was expecting, dude."

Castiel glances up again, and he's curious, evidently an expectant expression settles on his face, so Dean continues.

"I was expecting more of the, you know, deep voice and seriousness, like whole Spock shtick, and not…" he's gesturing vaguely at Castiel as he searches for his words, "I mean he's short…." He blinks at Castiel. "And the giggling. Definitely not the giggling."

Castiel chuckles quietly, and he feels it spread through him like a tiny fire. "People are frequently surprised we're related. I'm usually one of them."

Dean lets out a sudden bark of laughter that has Castiel nearly suffering a heart attack.

"That's great, man. I feel your pain. My, uh, my brother Sam and me," and he looks kind of embarrassed, "people think we're a gay couple all the time."

And Castiel can't help but find this comment absurdly hilarious, so the chuckles come up a little louder, just a bit wheezy, and his smile gets that much bigger, a lot of tooth, and it reaches his eyes to crinkle them at the corners. It feels really good, and he feels like he's forgotten how warm and buzzed and _good_ laughter and smiling big and dumb is.

Dean returns the smile, and it's just a little big and goofy too, and he says, "Man, I_ can_ actually make you laugh. I was worried I'd lost my mojo."

Castiel smiles bigger and he hides it by glancing down at the pie box, which he pushes forward to Dean, letting him know it's all wrapped and ready for purchase and consumption.

There's a large crash in the kitchen and some even louder swearing as Dean goes to pick up the pie box. He makes a face but he makes no comment, realizing that those sounds are probably a common occurrence here. For a few moments there's a calmer silence, and Dean balances the pie box and glances at the black watch on his wrist.

An employee looking angry and disheveled emerges from the kitchen and Castiel rushes to grab the bag in his hand, which he assumes contains Dean's order. The employee glances forlornly at the steam erupting through the doors, but he hunches his shoulders and ambles back in. Castiel is, by now, very curious and just a little unnerved at what could possibly be happening inside.

He places the bag by the cash register and he tallies up Dean's order instead.

When Castiel has done so, and Dean's handed him a twenty, Castiel is trying to extract change from the cash register but it's taking an ungodly long period of time, and he can hear Dean drumming his fingers on the counter.

"So, Cas, you think you'll be working here as a regular?" He asks, and his voice is very neutral.

Castiel pushes the 'open' button with vicious fingers, and he says, "no."

"Oh." Dean replies. There's a pause.

Castiel frowns at the machine and he shakes it a little, and he pushes the button once more, and then, as a desperate, last-ditch attempt, he holds the open button.

"My brother doesn't have the resources to pay me, for one. The staff is stocked." He explains. He frowns further at the machine, as if making angry faces at it is going to will the silvery metal to bend and obey and release its contents. "I'd also prefer not to rely on nepotism." Castiel continues, and with a sudden _bing_ the door slides open, revealing the long awaited cash-lined walls.

"Huh," Dean says, nodding a little, "I get that."

Castiel reaches in and grabs Dean's change. He counts the bills and he hands them over, with a polite smile. Dean stuffs the bills in his wallet, and he grabs his bag and tries to balance it with the pie.

"Well, thanks for the pie suggestion." Dean says, fixing Castiel with a wink.

Castiel nods in return, amused by the fact that he didn't suggest it at all. "It was no issue, Dean."

"See you around, Cas. Good luck, again, with job hunting." Dean turns towards the door, and he gets it open with little effort, the bell rings just softly, and he is gone.

Castiel watches him go, a second time.

Ash is walking back inside now, after an extremely extended break, and he smells like cigarettes.

He's standing next to Castiel, striking up some much livelier conversation, and his presence is almost overwhelming in the small space. Castiel can hear the excitement in the kitchen behind him, and he knows that Gabriel is there, real and solid, and that Gabriel isn't going anywhere anytime soon.

Still, he can't really ignore it, because it's jabbing him in his brain and squeezing his insides. For the first time in a while, he's feeling a small sense of loneliness. Even among family and people who are a little less than strangers.

He knows the state of being he was in before walking from May Street-that far away, dazed confinement, content in his mindlessness-that's not really going to work anymore. Now he's somewhere else entirely, and that small island of consciousness will never be enough, now that he knows it existed and that he was living it. Castiel is recognizing Loneliness again, it has settled back with him and he thinks it will be here to stay.

Loneliness is cruel, he thinks. It's genuine, hard and cold, and he really, really hates it.


End file.
